


Vantage Point

by Salmon_Pink



Category: Cinderella (1950), Disney Animated Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Community: disney_kink, F/F, Femslash February, Incest, Masturbation, Spanking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmon_Pink/pseuds/Salmon_Pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cinderella belongs to their mother, but that does not stop Anastasia and Drizella from watching and wishing and <i>wanting</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vantage Point

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Femslash February](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/femslash+february), for [100 Women](http://100-women.livejournal.com/), prompt "possession", and for [Disney Kink](http://disney-kink.livejournal.com/), [prompt](http://disney-kink.livejournal.com/9516.html?thread=6019884#t6019884) "Lady Tremaine/Cinderella, Cinderella being punished, spanked, or sexually humiliated by Tremaine while the stepsisters spy".

They could take it in turns, they could _share_ , but they don’t. They never do. Instead they hunch forward, shoulders knocking together, elbows in each others sides and hissed insults on their lips. Jostling for the right to stare through the keyhole, eyes wide and hungry.

It’s because of this constant war between the two of them that they only ever catch flashes of imagery, snippets of the scene beyond the door.

The cruel curve of their mother’s smile. The flutter of Cinderella’s lashes over downcast eyes. A skirt that is worn with age obediently pulled high around slender hips.

Anastasia and Drizella watch, fingernails digging into their palms, as Cinderella bends at the waist. She does not wear undergarments, not since their mother chose to forbid it several years before. She had insisted such an uncivilised and wretched girl as Cinderella did not deserve modesty, although Anastasia and Drizella have often whispered together, late at night and far from their mother’s ear, that they suspect the decision was more for their mother’s convenience. 

That, and the way Cinderella had looked so charmingly flustered, fair cheeks stained pink, eyes bright with arguments that never came.

It’s still a game they like to indulge in, catching Cinderella off-guard, pulling at her skirts in a way that threatens to expose her, revelling in her embarrassment.

They’re not supposed to know, of course. They’re not supposed to know about _any_ of the games their mother plays with their stepsister.

So they try to be careful when they sneak their glances, and their backs have become accustomed to the way they crouch against the keyhole.

They do not know what Cinderella is being punished for today. The house is large and Anastasia and Drizella revel in making a mess, and Cinderella is only one woman, impossibly tasked with keeping the estate clean. It could be because of their strewn clothes, it could be because of Lucifer’s claw marks in the curtains. It could simply be their mother’s whim, the weakest of excuses sounding so strong when murmured through Lady Tremaine’s lips.

Cinderella’s hands brace against the edge of the table, head lowered, her profile to the door, to Anastasia and Drizella’s waiting gaze. It is the best of views, for it allows them to stare at the curve of Cinderella’s backside, the length of her legs, pushing at each other all the while as they each fight for the right to the keyhole.

And it allows them to see the way their mother’s hand raises, long fingers and a flat palm.

Sometimes their mother will use a thin cane. Sometimes she will use a wooden spoon. Today it is a bare hand, and it makes Anastasia and Drizella squirm against each other, for somehow it is more _personal_ that way.

The first strike is so loud, even through the thick wood of the door. Cinderella rocks on her feet slightly, and that is how they can tell how strong the blow is. Sometimes their mother will start slow, will start light, small slaps and taps that only pinken the skin instead of reddening it. Building the burn slowly until the way Cinderella’s breathing has grown laboured is obvious, even from their hiding place.

But today the first blow is solid, and the second, and the third. Cinderella’s fingers scrabble at the table, trying to keep herself from pitching forward. Being pushed up on to her tiptoes by every smack of Lady Tremaine’s hand across the swell of her backside, and the next blow is always timed to catch her just as she pushes back down on to her heels.

Outside, Anastasia and Drizella squint and peer and sweat beneath their dresses. Pushing at each other too much, whoever sees their mother’s hand raise not then getting to see it land, for they cannot allow each other even a second uninterrupted with the sight beyond the keyhole.

Cinderella cries out too soon, as if she cannot keep the sound within her any longer. She has not been given permission to make noise, and the blows begin to land lower in retaliation, Lady Tremaine’s wrist twisting into each one. 

Anastasia and Drizella press their palms to the wood of the door, exhaling loud and shallow as they share breath, pressed together so tight.

A simple order and Cinderella is spreading her legs wider, feet skidding against the floor when the blows don’t stop. Moving as if she has no command over her own body, and she doesn’t, truly she doesn’t, for Lady Tremaine has had control of her for so very long.

Her noises don’t stop, breathy moans and gasped out words that Anastasia and Drizella can’t quite hear, can’t quite place. Delicate sounds, high and fluttery and desperate, punctuated by the slap of palm against rounded flesh.

They do not comment on who breaks first, not in the moment. It is something they will use as ammunition later against each other, but bent before the keyhole there is an unspoken agreement. One of them _will_ break, inevitable as a sunset. One of them will lift her skirts, unblinking and pressed to her sister’s side, or simply push her hands between her legs through the fabric.

The other will mirror her sister’s actions within the next breath.

And beyond the door, their mother’s hand tangles in Cinderella’s hair, pulls until her neck is arched back, vulnerable and trapped. The other hand dropping beneath Cinderella’s thighs, and their stepsister’s anguished and needy wail carries clearly through the door.

They can see their mother’s mouth moving, although the words are too low to hear. But Cinderella’s cries are not, hips bucking desperately, their mother’s fingers buried inside of her, working her open, working her closer to falling apart.

Anastasia and Drizella watch, rutting against their own hands, as their mother drags Cinderella to orgasm, pulls that pleasure from her like a strike to the face. So easy for her, after all these years, to reduce her stepdaughter to wrecked whimpers, knees giving way beneath her until she is collapsed at Lady Tremaine’s feet, flushed and trembling, chest heaving beneath her clothes.

And then there is the still moment where everything stops, that heartstopping moment of uncertainty and the intent throbbing between their legs, for they do not know what may come next. Their mother may lift her own skirts, may demand Cinderella’s mouth. She may feed Cinderella her fingers and order they be licked clean of Cinderella’s juices. She may choose to take Cinderella again, to see just how much pleasure she can wring from the girl before she is sobbing from the sensation of it.

Or she may arch an eyebrow at her shivering stepdaughter and then turn for the door. And Anastasia and Drizella will be left scrambling to hide, unfulfilled and aching for it, forcing legs that can barely stand to hurry them away before their mother sweeps from the room like a tempest.

But today their mother speaks, and Cinderella nods, small and slow, and raises shaking hands so she can begin to undress. Today it appears that they have _time_ , and an opportunity to stare at their stepsister’s body, if only in the snatched seconds of sight as they fight over the keyhole.

Today they have time but they both still hurry, rubbing fast and inelegant at themselves, as the one that they both desire, the one they both can never have, is bared before them. Her back to the door, and there will _always_ be a door between them, for Cinderella is their mother’s property and the keyhole remains all that they have.


End file.
